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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511498">You could make a religion out of this</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile/pseuds/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile'>Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Monsters, Multiple Religion &amp; Lore Sources, References to Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:14:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,324</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511498</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile/pseuds/Confessions_of_a_Closet_Bibliophile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam and Dean babysit four kids and taxi them to summer camp</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>125</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Introduction: Artistic liberties</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Chuck’s not a lazy writer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s written a whole him-damned series to prove it. </span>
  <span>But, you know, sometimes it’s hard generating new characters every time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Do you know how many minor players show up in every book? It’s insane, is what it is. So. Sometimes he recycles them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not anything crazy, not their personalities or anything. Just. Their appearances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Little, lesser-known characters, nothing that someone would pick up on. Guest stars, if you will. Sometimes, a person gets stuck in his head. There was so much that he wanted to do with them, and it just didn’t fit into the plot right. He’s giving them a new lease on life, really, another chance to live an epic story or to be the hero. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s all. No one will ever notice.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This entirely self-indulgent story was inspired by the fact that I sat up one morning and realized Adam and Luke are played by the same actor. I have no idea how I missed that for so long...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Act One: In the beginning...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please excuse my lack of New York knowledge, just throughout the rest of this fic. I've only been to NYC a couple of times, and the only time I stayed in a hotel/motel there was years and years and years ago. My family went because my mom and her friends wanted to attend a menstrual pad convention. Enough said.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’re sitting in a roadside diner somewhere in Kentucky when Sam says, “Hey, I think I’ve found us a case.”</p>
<p>Dean looks up from cramming a bacon cheeseburger into his mouth and makes a “huh” sort of sound around his food. He feels around his plate blindly for his onion rings as he waits for Sam to continue.</p>
<p>Sam rolls his eyes and makes his “why are you so gross” face. Dean retaliates by kicking him under the table, and of course Sam kicks back, and they get pulled into a short but intense war for a few minutes, scuffling and booting at each other. They only stop because one of them, Dean votes Sam because he would play dirty like that, jostles the table and Dean has to surrender in order to save his burger.</p>
<p>Friggin’ Sammy and his gigantic crushing feet.</p>
<p>Dean can feel bruises forming already, and he’s not in the business of letting Sam win too often. He wouldn’t want him to get a big head or start walking around thinking he can call the shots. Whatever. Food is more important anyway.</p>
<p>He polishes off his plate and starts thinking about the blueberry pie- à la mode, of course- scrawled in bright green dry-erase ink on the board above the register. </p>
<p>Sam clears his throat, all pissy, so Dean sighs a little inside and tears his eyes away from the siren call of creamy vanilla ice cream melting over piping hot berry pie. </p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, where’s this case?” </p>
<p>Sam perks up and starts rambling, all riled up and excited about something. He’s even wiggling in his chair a bit, <em> Jesus</em>. </p>
<p>“So I found some articles in the paper about disappearances in Brooklyn that seem to be pointing to some sort of haunted mansion.” He gives Dean a <em> significant </em> look, like that should mean something. </p>
<p>“Alright, so we’ve got some spirits to waste. What’s so interesting about that?” Dean asks before Sam spontaneously bursts into glittery confetti from anticipation. </p>
<p>Sam pauses dramatically, because he’s a little <em> bitch</em>, and says, “These two witnesses that made it out, they’re both saying they heard voices calling their names. Their family members.”</p>
<p>“Dead family?” </p>
<p>Sam’s forehead scrunches up in thought. “No, that’s the weird part. This guy, Greg Norris, heard his mother’s voice screaming for him. But his mom lives in San Diego, and she was completely fine when he called later. Chloe Alvarez heard her older brother’s voice, but he’s stationed in Somalia. He’s perfectly normal too.”</p>
<p>Huh. That is weird. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So, what are you thinking this thing is?” Dean asks later, as they’re cruising down the road, Boston turned down low so they don’t have to shout. “It’s probably not a wendigo or a crocotta, right? You said they were in Brooklyn, that’s right smack-dab in the middle of the biggest city in America.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Sam says. “That’s just what I was thinking. Most of the creatures I can think of that can mimic voices that accurately tend to stay out of the way, in unpopulated places where they can hunt without being caught out.” He’s thumbing through Dad’s journal, pen and scratch paper tucked under his thigh. “Maybe a shifter?” </p>
<p>Dean shakes his head. “Nah, you said the family lived in California and overseas. I can’t figure a way that a shifter could work their mojo without ever seeing the family.” He flicks on his left turn signal and whips around an old man crawling along in a Mini Cooper, of all things. “Well, I guess they could have stalked their victims first, maybe gotten to know them or listened in on calls. You said they just heard voices? They didn’t see ‘em?”</p>
<p>“Just voices,” Sam confirms. “So it could be we’re looking at a shifter who’s going out hunting, maybe friends of the victims.”</p>
<p>“Or one of those solitary monsters who’s gotten desperate. Maybe even a really freaky ghost.” Dean adds. “We won’t really know until we can touch down and start asking around. Check the sewers around the house. We might as well bring our silver stake and some iron rounds, holy water, maybe a little lighter fluid just to be safe.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Sam says, making messy notes on his pad. He’s already gone into his thinking mode, so he’ll be out of it for a while. Dean looks back at the road and cranks up the music.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They check into a little hotel somewhere between Tribeca and the Lower East Side, in what appears to be Chinatown, based on the characters covering shop signs and liberal use of mustard yellow and fire-engine red lettering. It seems that everyone who stays here must be tiny, because there is not a king or queen room at all. Like, in the entire damn hotel. </p>
<p>Dean sighs and tells the lady at the counter, “Just put us in one with two doubles.” </p>
<p>He doesn’t want to spend this much of his hard-earned money for his feet to hang off the edge of the bed all night, but he’s suffered worse for a hunt. It can’t be as bad as that time Dad had them camp out in the woods in the middle of a torrential downpour. Character building, his ass. </p>
<p>The worst part is the lack of an exterior door. It’s been a while since they’ve stayed in a place that doesn’t open directly outside, and they’re gonna get some strange looks if they come in all dirty and bloodied. Then again, they could pass it off as working in a butcher shop or something if anyone cares to ask. Dean’s counting on that New Yorker apathy to ward off most suspicions. </p>
<p>Dean shoulders his way into the room, dropping his duffel on the bed closest to the door. Sam follows, nose in Dad’s journal like it’s been the whole way up. Dean slaps him on the back to get his attention. </p>
<p>“Alright, Sammy, what’s the game plan?” </p>
<p>Sam emerges from whatever la la land he was in and blinks owlishly at the speckled white vinyl flooring, off-white cream walls, and garish purple and yellow bedspreads. </p>
<p>“Dean,” he says, drawing out the word warily, “Why are we in a psych ward? Did you finally lose it?” </p>
<p>Dean spreads his arms wide and bares his teeth at Sam. </p>
<p>“Welcome to New York City!” </p>
<p>Sam looks unimpressed by Dean’s theatrics, clearly because he has no sense of humor. Dean is <em> hilarious</em>. Sam rubs at his face with one giant palm and drops down into the metal chair by the room’s singular tiny desk. </p>
<p>“Food, then shower, then research, then bed,” Sam says, digging through his bag to emerge, victorious, ratty gray flip flops in hand. He tosses them by the bathroom door for later. Hotel showers tend to be pretty clean, in theory, but there's no harm in taking precautions. Dean shoves his memory of The Athlete's Foot Incident of '93 back in the <em> NO </em> box of his brain. He checks the latches on The Bedbugs of '96 too, while he's at it. And starts a rapid strip-search of the bedcovers and sheets.</p>
<p>He wonders if they have a blacklight in one of the duffles then comes to the conclusion that ignorance is most certainly bliss. </p>
<p>Sam scratches his ass and says, “I’m gonna see if I can find those witnesses, and we can try to talk to them tomorrow. Maybe get a look at that mansion in broad daylight before we go in.”</p>
<p>“Awesome.” Dean claps his hands once and heads for the door, listening for Sam’s slow shuffling behind him. “I’m thinking dumplings.”</p>
<p>They settle on a little hole in the wall a few blocks down, <em>Chinese</em> <em>Restaurant</em> emblazoned on the flickering sign. Over the years, Dean has found that the best international restaurants are the ones with names in a different language, helpfully and phonetically translated into English letters, or the ones with the most obvious titles.</p>
<p>Their dumplings are amazing. He orders them boiled because he can still hear Sandy chewing him out over it, between more...athletic activities. <em> Not everything needs to be fried, Dean. This is traditional, it's just better, I swear. </em> The sweetened bean curd pudding is pretty good as well, swimming in a dark, caramel-tinted syrup which carries a gingery kick down his throat. The pudding itself is smooth and silky on his tongue. The little peanuts floating around in it aren't too far off from the boiled peanuts Sammy used to beg Dad to buy from gas stations when they were passing through the Carolinas, sugary rather than salty. Dean’s reserving judgement on the little mushy rice and ice cream balls, though. </p>
<p>Sam taps away at his laptop late into the night. He’s still going at it when Dean passes out to the sound of Vin Diesel trying to hijack a semi. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Act Two: Dean versus Mochi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean wakes up first, surprisingly. Sammy tends to like to go on his morning runs to commune with nature and prance around with the fairies, but then again, he didn’t get to sleep until early morning. Rolling unceremoniously out of bed with a thud, Dean pads over to gingerly pull Sam’s laptop out from under his arm and set it on the table. He strips off his shirt and gives it a sniff, then steals one of Sam’s because wow, he’s really running out of clean laundry. Hopefully, if he lays it on the bed to air out a bit, it’ll last another day. Or two. </p><p>He wanders out into the city and finds a deli selling these awesome giant sandwiches. He buys one for himself, one for Sam, and eats his on the way back to the hotel. His sandwich is piled high with thick, juicy slices of pastrami and a generous smear of grainy mustard on soft, fluffy rye bread. It’s as close to a religious experience as Dean’s ever had. And he doesn’t even get weird looks for loudly, audibly, and possibly obscenely enjoying his sandwich.</p><p>Man, New Yorkers are the best.</p><p>Dean finds himself walking with a bit of a skip in his step. This case can’t be that bad if the food’s this damn good. He saves his pickle for Sam since he likes that sort of thing. Hopefully, it combined with the sauerkraut on Sammy’s reuben will be healthy enough for his delicate ass.</p><p>Look, Dean doesn’t have any problem with the fact that Sam likes rabbit food. But he’s a big guy, as loathe as Dean is to admit it, and man cannot live on salad alone. He needs energy, and he needs protein. Dean’s not gonna watch his brother turn into a husk for no reason. </p><p>Sam’s still sleeping away when Dean pulls open the door. Because he’s such a good brother, he puts Sam’s breakfast on the table before taking a running leap at the bed. Sam goes flying, with considerable force, and startles awake with a yell on the way down. Dean laughs until he’s crying. Sam looks absolutely ridiculous, hanging over the edge of the bed, slowly sliding off with the gaudy bedspread. He hits the ground and makes a sad little noise like a wounded seal, which just sets Dean off again. After about five minutes, Sam throws his boot at Dean’s head. </p><p> </p><p>They find the first witness, Chloe, at her haphazardly decorated and quite small apartment in Brooklyn. </p><p>“Hi, Chloe,” Sam says, smiling disarmingly at her. She squints at them, peeking out from behind her partially-opened door. Dean can see a great number of small succulents littering the space of her living room, mismatched but comfortable-looking furniture draped in big, fuzzy blankets filling the remaining capacity. </p><p>“Sorry, who are you?” she asks, eyeing them both with equal suspicion. </p><p>Sam laughs. She relaxes marginally; it’s the effect that Sam has on people. He just gives off this friendly, disarming vibe. It’s why Dean lets him handle the witnesses. </p><p>“I’m Sam, this is Dean. We’re friends of your brother, Jamie? He called and asked us to come check up on you since we were in the area. He said you seemed really shaken up in your last Skype call.”</p><p>Chloe nods and returns Sam’s smile, pulling the door open and beckoning them in. </p><p>“So how do you know Jamie?” She sips on a cup of hot tea, slim fingers wrapped carefully around a knitted mug cozy shaped like an owl. Its beaded eyes are staring into Dean’s soul. Sam elbows him and coughs pointedly. Dean plasters on his moderately charming smile. </p><p>Sam says, “We were college buddies. Lived on the same floor freshman year. There’s a lifelong bond forged by huddling together outside at 2AM in January because someone tried to microwave ramen sans water and set off the fire alarm again.” </p><p>He makes a put-upon face, and Chloe giggles into her cup. Dean picks up the thread, a smooth routine borne from years of practice. </p><p>"Yeah, Jamie has always been a good guy. We ragged on him for joining the army, and he would give it right back." </p><p>At Chloe's confused look, Sam clarifies. </p><p>"Both our dads were Marines. Inter-branch rivalries, you know. We were all friends, so it was cool. And at the end of the day, we knew that he was going to be saving lives. And you will too. Jamie mentioned you'd gotten a full ride to Baruch. Pre-med, right?" </p><p>Chloe beams at them, embarrassed but pleased. </p><p>"Jamie loves to brag about me. He just does it to mess with me. But yeah, hopefully I'll be a surgeon one day."</p><p>Dean's hand, which had been hanging over the arm of the couch he and Sam were occupying, is suddenly attacked by a tiny claw monster. He lets out what he refuses to classify as a shriek, a very manly and brave sound by the way, and cradles his <em> bleeding! </em> hand to his chest protectively. Sam, the utter asshole, just laughs at Dean's pain.</p><p>"Wait, let me guess. This little guy is Mochi, right?" Sam asks before leaning over the back of his seat and making cooing noises at the feral thing. Mochi is a really fluffy cat. Its fur sticks up everywhere like it has recently licked a power socket, adding to its overall startled appearance. Dean hopes that it doesn't try to eat Sam’s face, though it would probably serve him right for laughing. Fucking cats. Dean hates those furry hellspawn. </p><p>Looking horrified, Chloe falls all over the place checking out Dean's hand and apologizing every other word. </p><p>Dean grits his teeth and plays nice. "It's okay, no worries, I probably scared the little fella." He glares at Mochi over Chloe's shoulder. Mochi just blinks at him, all innocent-like.</p><p>"I honestly probably should have reminded Dean to keep an eye out," Sam says, plastering a rueful smile on. Dean can see his amused eye-crinkles though. Dammit. He's never gonna live this down. "Jamie always told us horror stories about Mochi the demon cat." </p><p>Chloe giggles again and scoops Mochi up out of Sam's range. It's good, too, because that cat had started getting all squirrely in the eyes, which in Dean’s opinion is a clear sign to retreat. "Yeah, Jamie and Mochi have never gotten along. Isn't that right, baby?" She nuzzles her face into its fur and Mochi tolerates it with a grumpy little face. Okay, so the cat is kind of cute, from way over here. But Dean isn’t getting any closer. </p><p>Her last doubts assuaged, apparently all they'd had to do was make friends with her cat, Chloe leans forward eagerly. "So what do you guys do?" </p><p>"Mechanic, lawyer," Dean says, pointing to himself then Sam.</p><p>"Ooh, defender of justice?" Chloe asks, waggling her eyebrows. </p><p>"Oh no," Sam says. "Patent law. Nothing that heroic." </p><p>"No, I don't think so," she insists as Mochi squirms out of her arms and darts across the room to hide under a curtain. "You're helping protect people's inventions, you're making sure they get credit for their ideas. It's definitely not nothing." </p><p>Sam chuckles, waving the edge of a mottled white and grey blanket in surrender. "Alright, I yield. Really though," he says, giving her his most earnest look, "Are you okay?" </p><p>Chloe's smile fades, and she tugs her cardigan more tightly around her body. </p><p>"No. I'm...not okay," she says, "I mean, I will be. But I'll be looking over my shoulder and jumping at shadows for a while longer." </p><p>"Do you want to talk about it?" Dean does his best to look sympathetic and trustworthy. Sam just makes a Sam-face. </p><p>"I guess if you don't mind. I don't want to worry Jamie, though!" </p><p>"No worries," Dean assures her. "We won't say a thing you don't want us to."</p><p>Chloe’s eyes dart around the room, searching out something that fails to appear. She shakes her head and grimaces. </p><p>“It was just so weird. I can’t wrap my mind around it. It was like one of those horror movies that Jamie loves so much. That’s what I was thinking when I first walked in.” She fusses with her hair and chews on a nail. “I was dared, that’s why I was there that night,” she says, huffing out a laugh too worn to be truly amused. “It was so dumb, honestly. I mean, my friend Joey was telling me all about it, and he said I would be too chicken to go there at night and take a photo in this haunted house. Kimberly and Aisha were supposed to come with, but they bailed on me. I wasn’t about to be scared off by ghost stories.”</p><p>Sam asks, “Were there ghosts though? I mean, Jamie said something about voices, but what was it?” Dean doesn’t know how, but he always manages to pitch his voice into inviting and concerned instead of prying. </p><p>Chloe shivers. “Well, I heard Jamie’s voice calling out to me. He sounded...scared. Like, I’ve only ever heard him really afraid a few times in my life. I knew that I had to find him and get him out. At the time, I didn’t even remember that he should’ve been overseas. Dumb, I know.” She trails off.</p><p>“Chloe,” Dean says, “From what Jamie’s said, he seems to think that you’re a genius. He thinks you hung the moon. It wasn’t your fault that you got scared and forgot. Now, did you try to look for him?” </p><p>“Well, I mean, I started to. I took off running toward the...kitchen...I think it was. Not even really paying attention to where I was headed until-” Here she stops and lets out a small sob. Dean shoots a look at Sam, hoping she doesn’t start crying because Dean can’t with the crying witnesses and everything. Oh, and there she goes. Sam rolls his eyes when Dean mouths, “Do something!” maybe more frantically than the situation warrants and hands her a tissue that materialized into his hand. Sometimes, it’s like he’s Mary Poppins. </p><p>“Until what?” Sam presses.</p><p>Chloe sniffles, wiping angrily at her cheeks and nose. </p><p>“I tripped on something. I fell flat on my face, and when I looked back, it was a femur. There were bones, big bones, scattered all around on the floor. I didn’t notice them until then.” She breaks down again. They just sort of awkwardly let her cry it out. </p><p>Dean widens his eyes at Sam, asking, <em> cannibals? </em> Sam furrows his eyebrows, <em> maybe</em>, and coughs to get Chloe’s attention. “What do you mean by ‘big bones’?” </p><p>She pauses, clearly hesitant, and darts glances between the two of them. </p><p>“I think maybe I saw something that wasn’t there. I mean, the bones were real, I know that for sure. But I thought-” She presses her lips together tightly and shakes her head, eyes wide. “-they looked like human bones.”</p><p>They leave after another hour or so, having spent the time comforting Chloe, in Sam’s case, and trying to make friends with Mochi while occasionally giving out tissues and pats on the shoulder, in Dean’s case. Hey, Dean knows his strengths, alright, so he just let the ladies talk it out. </p><p> </p><p>On the way to Greg’s work, which is conveniently right across the street from the creepy murder mansion, Dean turns to Sam and says, “So those people were definitely eaten, right? We can both agree on that?”</p><p>Sam gets all jumpy and starting looking around, but no one’s paying attention. A random man walked onto their subway car this morning and started pole dancing on the handrails, and nothing! Absolutely no response from anyone. Dean was honestly kind of impressed; it got pretty acrobatic near the end there. Either way, what Dean’s saying is that no one even cares if they start discussing monsters and cannibalism at 3 in the freaking PM. </p><p>Sam says, “Uh, yeah, it seems like it. So the wendigo theory’s holding out pretty well. Unless you think that maybe we’re on the tail of a shifter that’s gotten a taste for people.”</p><p>Which, eww. Dean grimaces. “Maybe. We don’t have much to go off of right now. I’m not ruling out ghosts either. I’ve got my walkman on me, so I can wave it around a bit and see if we pick anything up.” </p><p>“Sounds good,” Sam says and starts writing in his little notebook. A few minutes later, something occurs to Dean.</p><p>“Wait, so how did you know all that stuff about Chloe? Like, what she’s going to school for and her cat’s name?”</p><p>Sam shrugs like it’s obvious. “I just looked her up on Myspace.” Dean has no idea what he’s talking about, but if Sam’s creeper tendencies work in their favor, he won’t question it. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Act Three: In which Sam is a Disney princess, and D&D is definitely not a sex thing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their spooky murder mansion is pretty sweet. Most of the building is obscured by a collection of large and small trees in the front yard, but from what Dean can see, it looks a bit like a house that belongs to some rich guy who lives in Appalachia. Like one of those vacation homes that hangs right off the side of a mountain. Hell, Dean would live here if not for the murder and cannibalism parts.</p><p>Ivy crawls up the rough stone facade, thick like a blanket in places. The wrought iron gate surrounding the property is low enough to jump without issue. They circle around the back, checking for cold spots or EMF spikes, but there’s nothing. Dean’s not feeling particularly angry or sad, and Sam doesn’t look any more emo than normal. </p><p>Dean turns to Sam, who has finished his investigation and taken to watching a bunny- a freaking <em> bunny- </em> hop around in the grass like it holds all the secrets to life. He swears one day Sam’s going to wake up surrounded by cute baby animals like a lanky, anxious Snow White. </p><p>“I’m stumped. There doesn’t seem to be anything even a little ghost-y here,” Dean says to Sam’s back. </p><p>Sam <em> hmms </em> a bit absently, still contemplating the bunny as it furiously nibbles on a blade of grass, its floppy ears hanging down around its head. Dean gives up and sits down next to Sam. They’ve got a while before they can try to break in anyway, and their witness isn’t going anywhere. They watch Sam’s new friend groom itself and nudge every plant in its vicinity, just to check it out, Dean guesses.</p><p>Honestly, he can appreciate how single-mindedly it eats.</p><p>After a while, the bunny hops off to explore a patch of clover under a nearby bush, so Dean feels like he can talk without scaring it off. Sam would give him such a sad, pathetic face if he did, and Dean’s not in the mood to feel like a terrible person right now. </p><p>“Hopefully this guy will have some new information, something that doesn’t point to us taking a dive in shit tonight.”</p><p>“No kidding,” Sam says, glancing over at Dean and then back at the bunny. The relaxed, content way he’s sitting slides off of him, and he’s back to being pensive. He pulls himself to his feet like a soldier going to war and gives Dean a hand up. “Better get to it then.” </p><p> </p><p>Greg works at the Brooklyn Children’s Museum as a security guard. He’s a little shorter than average for a guy, which means he’s kinda small compared to Dean and tiny compared to Sasquatch here. They catch him on his break, playing what looks like Snake on his phone. He looks up as they approach and asks, “Can I help you?” </p><p>Dean takes the lead this time. “Uh, yeah actually, are you Greg Norris?” Greg looks really alarmed, so he’s quick to reassure him that “it’s not anything bad, I swear! My partner Sam and I saw your interview in the paper. The one about the haunted mansion? We’re ghost hunters, and this sounded like it could be something real, something that could make for a good story.” </p><p>Greg relaxes and shoves his phone in his pocket. “Jesus, you really had me worried there for a second! What do you want to know?” </p><p>Sam steps forward. “We were just wondering what you saw. We want to see if it’s worth checking out.”</p><p>Greg looks up and down the street, then beckons them closer conspiratorially. “If you really want my opinion, I don’t think it’s a ghost in there, man. Like, I don’t really believe in ghosts, I mean, my family always puts food and flowers at my grandma’s grave, and we gotta bow three times, but that’s more of a respect and tradition thing, you know?” He paces as he talks, hands gesturing wildly. “So I don’t really go in for the whole supernatural thing. But that was some freaky shit in there! Like something my Dungeon Master would come up with.”</p><p>Sam asks, “Is that a sex thing, or?”</p><p>“Nah, man,” Greg says, laughing. “It’s a fantasy game, you know? D&amp;D?” </p><p>Sam just blinks at him. Obviously, he does not know.</p><p>Maybe his memory needs jogging, so Dean slaps him on the back of the head, lightly. "Dude, it's role playing." </p><p>From Sam's face, Dean's contribution has not convinced him that it's not a sex thing. Which is kind of hilarious.</p><p>“Right, sorry, continue? What did you see?” Dean asks, very professionally resisting the urge to rag on Sam, like the professional that he is. He's not sure how Sam misses some of these things, being so damn smart. </p><p>Greg takes a big, exaggerated breath in and launches back into his story.</p><p>“Well I heard my mom’s voice, right? I was heading home from a night shift, just had to walk to the station, when I heard her inside this creepy fucking house. And I <em> knew </em> that it wasn’t her, it couldn’t have been her, but it’s not like I’m just gonna leave my mom in there, so I had to go check. I went down into the basement, and it was this group of four homeless dudes, squatters, I think. They were huge!” </p><p>Here, Greg raises his hand as high as it can go and jumps for emphasis. </p><p>“Taller than this! And really fucking ugly, let me tell you that. One of them opened his mouth and called my name, sounding just like my mom. Like, if I didn’t see him, I would have thought it was her, swear to God. I ran outta there quick, believe me! Though, for a second it looked like the dudes only had one eye. One eye each, I mean.”</p><p>Sam punches Dean’s arm a couple times, which is both painful and unnecessary, but yeah, <em>got the message, Sammy.</em> </p><p>Dean clarifies, “So, there were four guys, and they each only had one eye?”</p><p>Greg nods like a squirrel on crack. “Up high, like in the middle of their foreheads.” He taps his to demonstrate. Then he runs a hand over the back of his neck and laughs a little. “But I think I was just tripping or something. There’s no fucking way, and I’m not going back to check.” All of the sudden, his face gets really serious, and he says, “You might be looking for a thrill, man, but those weren’t ghosts. So you should probably just keep looking somewhere else.” The really intense expression on his face clears, and he’s all smiley again. “Hey, it was really nice to meet you guys, but my break’s over.” And he leaves. </p><p>Dean turns really slowly to look at Sam, and they blink at each other.</p><p>Dean says, "I think we just met an NPC."</p><p>"What?" </p><p><em> Jesus Christ</em>.</p><p>"Oh, never mind, let's just go. I need a nap." </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>You can't convince me that Dean wouldn't love D&amp;D. He's definitely a nerd, deep down under all the machismo.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Act Four: In the lore...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Dean emerges from his nap, feeling like a zombie crawling out of its grave, he can tell that Sam hasn't slept a wink. He's got that mad-scientist, discovery waits for no mortal man look in his eyes, a custom-blend mix of determination bashing up against exhaustion. </p><p>"Any luck?" Dean asks after he empties his bladder and brushes his teeth. Now he just needs some food, and he can start to feel like a human again. </p><p>Sam sighs, closes his eyes, and presses his knuckles into his eyelids, face all scrunched up. He probably needs food too. "Some theories, a lot of leads, but nothing concrete." </p><p>“Well, run them by me, and maybe we can narrow something down.” </p><p>“It’s not that easy,” Sam shoots back, more aggressive than strictly necessary. Dean resists the urge to bristle and focuses on staying calm. Sam always gets pissy when he’s tired, it’s nothing personal. </p><p>“C’mon, man, just throw the kitchen sink at me. We’ll figure it out.”</p><p>As Dean had hoped, Sam switches over to researcher mode, which is a lot less annoying than his bratty little brother shtick. </p><p>“There’s just too much out there. I was hoping for one mostly concrete, mostly held-together idea, like how there’s a similar story about humans pissing off the gods and being punished with a flood in various mythologies. But instead, we’ve got wildly different depictions of one-eyed monsters and not a whole lot about how to kill or dispel them.” </p><p>Sam brandishes a handful of loose notes in Dean’s direction. </p><p>“At the very least, I don’t think we’re dealing with the Japanese variant. Neither witness mentioned anything about cute little kids who like tofu.”</p><p>“What,” Dean asks, “the hell are you talking about?” </p><p>Sam shakes his head and continues. “The most common term for all these creatures is a cyclops, but each region has a different name for them.” </p><p>He then proceeds to let out a series of incomprehensible syllables, which Dean gathers are Sam’s attempts to say them in their original languages. Sam can do some passable Latin, well enough to waste a demon, but he’s no polyglot. Dean does catch something that sounds like ‘fucking,’ but not much else. </p><p>“They exist in folktales all around the world, from Scotland to the Philippines. In Syria, the antichrist is described as a cyclops. The aboriginal people of Australia believe that shooting stars are one-eyed monsters who kill the sick by drinking their blood. Cannibalism is a common theme throughout the lore, and they tend to be represented as giants.” </p><p>“Jesus,” Dean says. “Well, at least we know we’re on the right track. How do we kill them?” Everything can be killed, if they can find the right weapon. </p><p>Sam flips through his notes. “Uh...it’s somewhat unclear. In many stories, there’s no recorded way to defeat a cyclops. The most famous account of cyclopes comes from Homer, and Odysseus never actually kills it. He just blinds it and runs away as fast as he can.”</p><p>“Not an option. What <em> else </em> does the lore say?” Dean doesn’t need any discouraging shit right now.</p><p>Sam picks up a sheet of paper and squints at it. “So, the exhaustive list is strangulation by a boa constrictor, trickery and the power of friendship and unity-” Dean snorts, and Sam gives him a look like, <em> I know, right?" </em>-pulling a single white hair from the creature’s beard, and decapitation with a magical sword. Assuming we don’t want to pick the ‘scream and run away’ option.” </p><p>Dean makes grabby hands at the paper until Sam hands it over. He scans the list again and draws arrows to connect some of Sam’s bullet points. “Maybe there’s a way to combine them all, at least as much as we can. Any known weaknesses?”</p><p>“Cyclopes have heightened senses to make up for only having one eye. Some myths say they have excellent hearing; others say they possess a refined sense of smell. They’re not very bright though, and their eye is vulnerable. I feel like our best bet is to go for the eye and then decapitate them.”</p><p>Dean nods. “We should consecrate our bullets and machetes, the usual and whatever protective runes you can find, that’s the closest we can get them to magical. And maybe dead man’s blood, in case they’re some off-shoot of vampires. You said they might drink blood?” </p><p>“Yeah, and that’s a good idea,” Sam says, scrawling Dean’s suggestion down before starting to clean up the blast radius zone that is his research table. “I think we still have some blood in the trunk. I’ll do the rites while you grab dinner.” </p><p>Dean grins and slugs Sam’s shoulder. “You read my mind.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Act Five: Death by the power of friendship and unity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shortly before midnight, they hop the gate to the mansion, slipping their guns from their waistbands as they approach the front door. Dean goes to pick the lock, but the door swings silently open at the slightest touch. </p>
<p>“Creepy,” Dean mutters. It’s almost like whatever’s inside wants them to enter. </p>
<p>Dean ducks inside, Sam at his back, and they send twin beams of light in slow, sweeping movements around the room. </p>
<p>Nothing. It’s empty. </p>
<p>From the outside, the house looks relatively well kept, but its interior betrays months of neglect. A layer of dust has settled onto the floor, showing tiny shoe prints leading off to the left, through a darkened doorway. Dean meets Sam’s eyes and jerks his head in that direction. At Sam’s nod, they cross the threshold into the living room where the furniture is draped in moth-eaten sheets and yet more dust. </p>
<p>Dean steps forward, and his foot comes down onto something with a crunch. </p>
<p>He’s stepped straight through a skull, which is...gross. Dean shakes the remaining pieces of bone from his boots and shines his flashlight at the floor. Scattered around the room are hundreds of bones in various sizes and stages of aging. All vaguely human. All covered in teeth marks, as if they were gnawed on before being discarded. </p>
<p>So that’s a go for cannibalism, then. Dean turns to Sam to suggest splitting up-</p>
<p>A bone-chilling scream tears through the silence. </p>
<p>They bolt through the house, looking for the origin of the sound. In the kitchen, Sam grabs Dean’s arm and points at a door, near which hangs a board with key hooks and multiple light switches. </p>
<p>It’s ajar. </p>
<p>Dean bursts through the door and thunders down a rickety wooden staircase just in time to see a little blonde girl stab a man in the foot. Dean’s eyes dart around, taking in three gigantic men, at least a head taller than Sammy, standing around a bonfire, and a squirming bundle which hangs above a boiling pot. </p>
<p>Oh hell no. </p>
<p>The first man crumples to the floor while the little girl runs away to a far corner of the room. The other men spring toward the stairs, and Dean shoots one in the face. He literally explodes into yellow powder, like some sort of demented glitter bomb, and the remaining two roar angrily. One crashes into Dean, taking him to the floor, and they grapple for purchase. The man bares his teeth and tries to rip out Dean’s throat, but Dean manages to get his gun up and gank him. </p>
<p>Panting, Dean staggers to his feet and searches for Sam, who resorted to decapitation, judging from the machete in his left hand. Sam stalks over and dispatches the last monster with a quick, economical swing. They move to let down whichever poor, unlucky bastard was fixing to be roasted alive, but stop dead when the little girl, who Dean had honestly forgotten about, charges up to them waving a switchblade. </p>
<p>“Whoa, hey!” Dean says, worried that she’ll trip and cut off her own foot. </p>
<p>“Stay back!” she shrieks, swinging wildly at their ankles. Dean hisses when she catches him in the shin and stays the hell back. He’s reluctantly impressed that she’d known to aim low, at the less defensible areas. Quickly, Dean tucks his Colt away, raises his hands, and barks at Sam to do the same. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam sling his machete across his back like he’s Geralt of fucking Rivia. Sometimes, he wonders about that kid. </p>
<p>“Alright, alright, we’re not going to hurt you,” Dean tells the girl. He wiggles his empty fingers. “See? But can we cut down your friend over there? I think they’re probably starting to sweat.” </p>
<p>The hanging bundle squeaks a little and falls still, playing dead. The kid glares at them suspiciously but backs away to let them approach the fire. Sam tosses Dean his bowie, gently lifting the person while Dean saws away at the rope connecting them to a meathook hanging from the ceiling. </p>
<p>The cloth ripples and out tumbles three more kids, disheveled and red in the face, bringing Dean’s count of surprise! children up to four. The stab-happy one steps menacingly toward Dean, who obligingly retreats near the stairs and gives the kids time to collect themselves. While they dust themselves off and confer in low tones, looking over warily every so often, Dean takes stock of them. </p>
<p>There are two boys and two girls. The oldest is a scrawny blond kid who’s wearing leather cosplay armor, then a very punk girl who looks like she’s just stumbled out of a Hot Topic. There’s another boy, curly-haired and on the verge of tears, and of course the little homicidal one. </p>
<p>Dean inches closer to Sam. “We should probably call their parents, right? Just to make sure they get home alright?” </p>
<p>“<em>Dean</em>,” Sam says, staring at the kids. </p>
<p>“What?” Dean asks, but then he really looks. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He vividly remembers how easily baby Sammy got dirty when he was playing around, but these kids are too worn-down. Their clothes seem almost new, but they’re stiff with accumulated sweat, and Dean would bet the entire contents of his wallet that they were stolen. The kids are skittish and too thin, grimy like Sam was just after Dean picked him up in Flagstaff. </p>
<p>Sonuvabitch. They’re runaways. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey, thanks for the assist.” The LARPer interrupts Dean’s thoughts. “But we need to head home. Our parents are probably pissed that we snuck out.” He grins sheepishly, and it’s both completely fake and oddly convincing. It probably fools most of the adults they run across. </p>
<p>“Cut the bullshit,” Dean says.</p>
<p>The kid’s face changes on a dime, friendliness and ‘don’t mind little old me’ melting away to reveal a world-weary nature befitting a war vet. He scowls and lightning-quick pulls another fucking knife- where are these kids getting all these knives?- from his pocket. </p>
<p>“Get out of our way.”</p>
<p>Kids these days, honestly. </p>
<p>Dean does his best to level with him. “Hey, man, I’m not trying to get all up in your business. I just want to be able to sleep tonight knowing that I didn’t leave a group of children alone in the city. Can we drop you off somewhere? A shelter or maybe a friend’s house?”</p>
<p>Mulishly, the kid insists, “We were fine and would have handled it without you. Speaking of, we don’t need your help now.”</p>
<p>Sam cuts in before Dean can get into an argument with the little shit about how, no, they obviously weren’t fine and dandy because they were about to be eaten by monsters. On that note, other than the youngest boy, the kids look way too calm for a near-death experience. Curly still might burst into tears at any moment, but the rest of them are remarkably composed. Dean figures that it’s the shock, and all the hysteria is going to kick in any moment. He’d rather not be here for that, but he’s not just going to <em> leave</em>.</p>
<p>“Do you have somewhere to go?” Sam asks, using his nice ‘talking to possibly traumatized witnesses’ voice that makes even Dean want a warm hug. The best thing about Sam is, he’s not even faking it. He cares that much about everyone. </p>
<p>“Camp,” the little blonde girl mumbles into her friend’s shoulder. Sam’s brow wrinkles in confusion.</p>
<p>“Sorry, what?”</p>
<p>She raises her head and says, very clearly and slowly, “We’re going to camp.”</p>
<p>Dean squints at her. “It’s March.”</p>
<p>The only time he’s ever been to sleep-away camp was when he was, like, seven and Dad decided that he needed to spend some time with kids his age. He’d taught his fellow campers how to start fires and whittle branches into spears. Subsequently, the counselors made a number of very concerned calls, and the whole thing ended with Dad picking him up early before CPS could show up. That experience hadn’t been repeated, but he’s pretty sure that camp is a summer break kind of thing. </p>
<p>The little girl sighs, a very put-upon sound that resembles an irritated librarian more than a kid who’s probably been sleeping in Central Park, or worse, a shelter. “They’re open all year-round.” She nods decisively, like everything’s settled now. </p>
<p>Sam presses, “Where’s this camp? Can we give you a ride there?” </p>
<p>“Why?” Hot Topic asks, picking at her nails. “Why even bother?”</p>
<p>Uh...how to explain this without coming across as nutjobs. Dean just goes for broke. “It’s sort of our job. ‘Saving people, hunting things,’ it’s just what we do.” </p>
<p>Curly perks up. “You mean like a quest?” He says it like it should mean something, like there’s weight behind the idea. Dean figures, well, if it’ll get these kids to take him more seriously, he can play along with them. He did the same thing with Sammy, inventing all sorts of fun adventures when Dad left them alone for days. It’s just what kids do to cope. </p>
<p>“Yeah, sure,” he agrees. “It’s our quest to get you to camp.” </p>
<p>Like magic, the kids are onboard, seemingly convinced of their credentials. Dean’s just happy they’re in agreement. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Act Six: Magic isn't racist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean would resent being judged by a bunch of little kids, but they're not wrong.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s way too easy to get these kids back to the hotel. Meaning, Dean needs to have some sort of conversation with them about not trusting random strangers, but he’s not sure it would have the same effect coming from him, given that he’s just learned their names.</p><p>The oldest is Luke, then there’s Thalia, Grover’s the real sensitive kid, and Annabeth is the tiny, angry one. But yeah, aside from some wary looks every once in a while, they don’t seem to have any particular reservations about Dean or Sam.</p><p>The actual trip itself gets a bit hairy when these crazy bird ladies attack them on the subway, but the kids jump right in, no questions asked. Thalia really holds her own with- surprise!- another goddamn knife, and even Grover gets in on the action. At one point, he chucks a crushed Dr. Pepper can at one of the monsters, which doesn’t do shit, but A for effort. The few other passengers don’t even notice the fight. Not a single person looks up when Sam shoves his machete through one of the monsters, even when she bursts into a gross sand that smells like rotten eggs. New Yorkers are wild, man. </p><p>“It’s almost like you’re monster magnets,” Dean jokes.</p><p>Annabeth sniffs, primly. “That’s victim blaming.” </p><p>“Well shit, I guess it is. Will you forgive me?” Ignoring Sam snickering behind him, Dean squats down so she’s at eye-level and gives her his saddest face. She giggles, and all of the sudden, she’s an innocent little angel that’s never tried to stab Dean in the foot. Kids are dangerous like that. </p><p>After they’re safe and sound in the hotel, Dean sends Sam out to get food for the kiddos while he strips and cleans the guns and machetes. Once Sam gets back, Dean wolfs down his meal before he busies himself with checking the salt lines and locking up for the night. By mutual agreement, Sam’s taking care of the ammo because Dean hates drawing sigils. Grover seems really interested, so Dean tells him a bit about how the salt keeps out spirits, demons, and all sorts of nasties. </p><p>“Are you children of Hecate?” Grover asks, less on-edge than he’d been earlier. That’s one that Dean hasn’t heard of before, but maybe the kid has vague ties to a coven. It would explain why they all seem so unphased by everything. And yeah, what he’s saying probably does sound like magic, but Dean’s no witch. </p><p>“Hell no, this is easy stuff. We’re not witches, though we do borrow theories from a lot of different religions.” </p><p>“And what is he doing?” Grover points at Sam, who has finished sketching protection runes onto their bullets with a fine-tipped permanent marker and is now carefully dipping them into dead man’s blood. While they dry, he sets out bowls of salt and water, incense, and a white candle that’s seen better days and will need replacing soon. Dean makes a mental note to grab one next time they pop into a Walmart. </p><p>“Consecration,” Dean whispers, trying not to break Sam’s concentration. “Restocking ammo. Not every creature reacts to consecration, but it doesn’t hurt.” They weren’t expecting to run into more sons of bitches tonight, but now they’re going to be on high alert until the kids are safe at summer camp, and even then, Dean will need to have a chat with whoever’s running the show to brief them on safety measures. He was kidding earlier about the whole monster bait thing, but stranger things have happened. It’s certainly not out of the realm of possibility. Sam arranges his tools around himself in the cardinal directions, lights the candle and incense, and starts his ritual. </p><p>Grover looks confused. “It’s not Greek.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>The kid gestures in Sam’s general direction. “What he’s doing, it’s not Greek. Is this how you killed the cyclopes earlier?” Given that Grover’s definitely seen Sam gank a monster or two, Dean doesn’t see any harm in answering. </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Grover sniffs the air. “Lead and copper, right? That shouldn’t work on cyclopes or harpies. Wrong region, wrong religion!” He stomps a foot on the ground, maybe for emphasis or because a tantrum is coming on, it’s hard to tell. It better be the former though, because Dean is not equipped to deal with a meltdown. </p><p>Dean shrugs. “Magic isn’t racist.”</p><p>Sam, who has this sixth sense for inaccurate explanations of lore and a massive boner for semantics in general, groans and drops his face into the hand not currently waving a sack of bullets over the bowl of salt. "What he means is that magic is intent. It's your willpower facing off against natural order, finding the energy and directing it where you want it to go. Magic isn't <em> nationalistic</em>." </p><p>"Yeah, okay, college boy," Dean replies, waving a hand lazily. “Finish exerting your willpower.” </p><p>Grover looks like the world's been turned on its head, like he's just found out that the sky is green. </p><p>Luke wanders over, but Dean’s positive that he’s been watching them this whole time despite his pretending to be absorbed by reruns of Doctor Who on the chunky hotel tv. He’s subtle, but Dean knows when he’s being tracked. “So what’s the plan?”</p><p>Dean hasn’t gotten around to formulating one yet, per say. “Where is this camp of yours?”</p><p>“So Chiron didn’t send you?” Luke counters. “And you’ve never been to camp either. Who are your parents?” </p><p>“John and Mary. We’re just hunters.” These kids are in the supernatural world somehow, that’s the only explanation. </p><p>Luke nods. “Legacies, then.” It’s a weirdly formal way to say that Dad dragged them around the continental US chasing monsters, but okay. </p><p>“Sure, that’s about the size of it. Point is, I don’t know where this camp is, so I’m gonna need your help.” </p><p>Luke pauses and looks around like he’s afraid someone might be listening. Then he leans in and says, “It’s on Long Island, right at the very edge of Montauk.”</p><p>Sam taps away at his laptop for a bit, freezes, and asks, “Wait, when you said camp, did you mean Camp Hero State Park?” </p><p>Luke glances at Grover then nods. “Yes?”</p><p>Sam gapes at him. “That makes a weird amount of sense.” Dean has no idea what’s happening, so Sam explains, “Camp Hero has long been suspected of being a base for military experiments with time travel, extraterrestrial life, mind control, and human genetic engineering-"</p><p>Thalia snorts and mutters something that sounds like, "If that's what you wanna call it." </p><p>Sam doesn't seem to hear her. "It's more of a conspiracy theory thing, but we know those usually have an element of truth to them. Of course that’s where we would be heading.” So it’s definitely something up their alley. Maybe another group of non-cannibalistic vampires or a particularly large coven. Hopefully they’ll wait to hear an explanation before killing him when he rolls up with their kids. </p><p>“How long of a drive is it?” Dean asks. </p><p>Sam runs another quick search. “About two and a half hours, tops.”</p><p>“Alright, that’s not too bad. We’ll just drive there tomorrow, get you all dropped off, and head out. No big deal.” </p><p>Thalia rolls her eyes so violently that Dean worries she might strain something. “That’s your plan? Just drive and hope for the best?” </p><p>Sam turns to face her. “Is there something we should know?”</p><p>“They’re <em> legacies</em>,” Luke tells Thalia. “They don’t know any better.” Dean’s not sure whether he should be offended or not. </p><p>Thalia huffs, like she can’t be bothered, so Luke takes over. “We’ll be chased down by monsters the whole way. A couple hours can be a very long time.”</p><p>“Why?” Sam asks. </p><p>“They’ll smell us from a mile away.”</p><p>Dean lifts his arm and sniffs himself, a bit embarrassed to be called out like that, and by a homeless kid to boot. Obviously, that laundry run is top priority once this is all over. Luke just looks at him like he’s a particularly dull lightbulb. </p><p>“Not you. They can smell us, our blood,” which is incredibly unsettling to think about, so Dean’s not even going to go there. </p><p>“They? How many more of these things are you expecting?” Sam asks. </p><p>Luke grimaces. </p><p>“Let’s just say, you’re going to want to keep that machete sharp.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the long wait, my dudes. My physics class has been keeping me pretty busy, and I can't believe that my first midterms are already here! No promises for when my next update is coming :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Act Seven: Spiders are the worst.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm honestly so embarrassed at how long it's taken me to update! And apologies that this isn't a longer chapter. We're nearing the end (maybe two chapters left, I think?), so hopefully I'll be able to get those out in a more timely manner.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dean bolts awake at the ass crack of dawn to the little one screaming her head off. A nightmare, by the looks of it. Sam takes a break from hogging the blankets (and all the available mattress) and gets the lights, something halfway between sadness and understanding crossing his face. If he’s thinking what Dean’s thinking, he’s wondering what the hell else these kids have seen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time Dean kicks his brain online, Luke’s already shaking Annabeth awake and murmuring mindless little things at her until she calms down. All the kids scoot into a pile at the head of the bed, patting each other and just generally making sure everyone’s alright. It’s clearly a well-oiled routine, and the fact that their parents are nowhere to be found bothers Dean more than he expected. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it’s really none of his damn business. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they’re on a hunt or off celebrating Ostara or something. Maybe they were separated by accident, and they made a plan to meet up. It’s not even like the kids can’t take care of themselves. They’re still alive, after all. Dean wasn’t any older when Dad started leaving them alone, and they’ve turned out fine. Sort of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Dad always came back for them. And he never would’ve let Sammy run off without tanning Dean’s hide and sending him off to bring the little shit home. Maybe he’s just jumping to conclusions. He knows fuck all about their lives.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bad dream?” Sam asks, sitting on the other bed, far enough away that none of the kids tense up. Annabeth worries her lip between her teeth, her tiny brows furrowed as she decides whether or not to answer. Eventually, she nods and says quietly, “A bunch of spiders. They were all over me and in my mouth.” Dean’s relieved to hear that it sounds like a normal kid dream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aww, man, spiders are the worst! And scary!” Dean says, shuddering exaggeratedly and making a grossed-out face. He hates those leggy little bastards. Plus, Sammy never reacted well when Dad told him to go back to bed but stay vigilant, so he figures a sympathetic ear and the promise to keep guard will work just as well as it did then. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Annabeth stares at him, eyes wide and shiny. “Yeah, they’re really scary.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam reaches over Grover and Thalia to pat her on the arm. “How are you feeling now? Do you think you can sleep?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Poor Annabeth looks distraught at the idea and hides her face in Luke’s shoulder. “What if they come back?” she mumbles into his shirt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean thinks for a while, walks over to his duffle, and pulls out a can of bug spray. “I have an idea.” He crouches down so he’s eye-level with her and waits patiently until she emerges again. “Spiders are bugs, right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Annabeth makes a disapproving face and shakes her head. “Spiders aren’t insects, they’re uh-rack-nids,” she says, carefully pronouncing the words. Dean grins because that’s just adorable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but they’re kind of buggy, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah!” Annabeth bounces in place, looking more excited than scared now. “Should I spray them in the face if they come close?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That sounds like a recipe for disaster, especially with four little kids rolling around, so Dean quickly redirects her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, how about this? I can teach you a protection rune, and you can draw it around your bed with the bug spray. Then you’ll be twice as protected!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Annabeth ponders this for a bit, then nods.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They move over to the table so Dean can draw the sigil on a piece of paper, and she can practice it a couple of times. When she feels she’s ready, he reminds her, “Magic is intent. It doesn’t matter if your lines are a bit wonky as long as you make it work.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her lines are perfect and sharp, a bit shiny against the linoleum. She crushes him in a hug, whispers a soft, “Thank you for believing me,” into his ear, and when he looks up, Luke gives him a small, crooked smile. Dean ruffles the kid’s hair, laughing when he pouts and swats at him, and hoists Annabeth up so she can climb back into bed without disrupting the drying bug spray.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam’s watching them wistfully, so Dean gives in and hugs him too. He’s just an awesome brother like that. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sam's definitely jealous that the kids are bonding with Dean and not him :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Act Eight: The Baby-Sitters Club hits the road!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alright, so this story's decided that nine chapters isn't enough. I'm thinking ten seems like a nice round number, but the distracted squirrel that is my muse is running the show. </p><p>Things are wrapping up though, so it shouldn't be much longer.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean doesn’t know what deity he blew in a past life, but they get out of the city and onto the interstate no problem. It’s a picture-perfect day, just enough sun to chase away the clouds and light up the sky baby blue without getting into his eyes. </p><p>“Next stop, Camp Hero State Park,” he tells the kids, who are squished in the back. There aren’t enough seat belts to go around, but they’re wedged in tightly enough that they’re pretty much stuck until he opens a door. The rest of the drive should be a breeze, just a few hours on the highway with an exit somewhere in the middle. It’s the perfect opportunity to jumpstart their education on the classics. </p><p>“Hey, check this out,” he calls, fumbling for his worn copy of T.N.T. “You’ve ever listened to AC/DC?”</p><p>Blondie shakes her head, little pigtails flopping about. Sam had fussed about getting them nice and even, like the other PTO moms would judge him if the kid’s hair wasn’t just right. “My daddy’s favorite band is the Beatles!”</p><p>Grover nods solemnly, like their mutual appreciation for the first boy band known to man is a shared destiny. </p><p>“My mom really likes Enya,” Luke volunteers. Dean’s heart goes out to him, poor kid. </p><p>“My mom’s into Madonna,” Thalia says, making a disgusted face, which is <em> harsh</em>, “but I like Fall Out Boy.” </p><p>Dean has no idea who that is, but he notices Sam’s look of recognition and hurriedly shoves his tape in before they end up stuck listening to sad emo music for three hours. He had enough of that when Sammy was still shorter and less of a brick wall.</p><p>“Well, this is the best music!” he shouts over the opening riffs, cranking up the stereo to ward off any arguments. By the time the bagpipes come in, Annabeth is headbanging like a champ, Grover’s nodding along, and Thalia is fully rocking out. Luke is grinning wide, the most unburdened that Dean’s seen him so far.</p><p>A few minutes later, Dean’s spirited and quite good singing, if he can say so himself, is interrupted by a bony but insistent tapping on his shoulder. </p><p>“Dean!” Annabeth pokes him again. </p><p>“Yeah?” he asks, turning down the volume a bit. </p><p>“What’s this song about? What’s a jack?” </p><p>Shit. Dean freezes. “Uh, well, you know-” </p><p>Mercifully, he’s interrupted by Luke, who answers like he’s entrusting them all with a great secret. “It’s about poker, Annie. You can tell because it talks about a full house, and, like, kings and aces. The jack is a card that’s worth less than a queen but more than a ten.”</p><p>Annabeth clearly thinks the sun shines out of Luke’s ass, so she accepts this explanation happily. Dean lets out a sigh of relief, then chokes a bit when Thalia puts in her two cents. </p><p>“No, that’s not it!” she corrects. “It’s an extended metaphor for sex-” </p><p>And that’s when Dean yells, “Okay, okay, emo music it is,” slaps at the eject button, and shoves in the Third Eye Blind tape he’s been carting around since Sam headed off to Stanford and left it in Baby’s glove compartment by accident. He catches Thalia’s eyes in the rear view, and she just smiles at him, innocent and looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.</p><p>Damn, outplayed by a little girl.</p><p>They stop at this little diner to grab lunch twenty minutes out from the park. Most of the kids get burgers, but Thalia orders pancakes, and Grover really only seems to care about his soda, which <em> has </em> to come in a can. Dean narrowly avoids a meltdown by jogging over to the corner store to grab him a Dr Pepper.</p><p>He’s not really sure what the protocol is on indulging kids- do you just give them what they want?- but he figures he can be the cool babysitter for now. Sam was an easy kid, other than when he was being a brat. It wasn’t until he got older and started butting heads with Dad all the time that he caused any trouble. </p><p>Dean gets his burger with a fried egg, thick slices of bacon, and barbecue sauce, but the best part is the thick, juicy slice of tomato. It’s that fancy heirloom kind, the ones that are really red and bumpy, sort of pumpkin shaped. Annabeth doesn’t like tomatoes, something about the “way it feels in her mouth,” so Dean gets to eat her slices too, which is awesome. </p><p>When Baby blows a tire about ten minutes down the road, Dean groans because the day’s honestly been going too well, considering the shit they went through just to get back to the hotel last night. He pulls over to the side of the road next to a big empty field, easing Baby to a stop by an old wooden fence.</p><p>Something doesn’t feel right about this.</p><p>He can’t quite put a finger on it, but it’s the same itch in his spine that he’s learned to heed over the years. He catches Sam’s eyes as he climbs out and says, “Pop the trunk.” Either Sam can feel it too or the look on Dean’s face is enough to get him scrambling for their supplies. Stepping out, Dean heads toward the back and freezes. </p><p>
  <em>“Jesus fuck.” </em>
</p><p>Both of the back tires are shredded. He’s spent summers working with the junks at Bobby’s, and he didn’t nab a job at that garage in Talbott because of his pretty face. Baby is, well, his baby, and he damn well makes sure she’s in the best condition before they set out. He checked her tire pressure just this morning, and he doesn’t give out his hard earned money for shitty parts.</p><p>Plus, he’s never seen a blowout look like this. It’s not a ragged tear around the edges, more like three clean cuts on each one. </p><p>Like claws. </p><p>Dean’s stomach drops right down to his boots. </p><p>They’re being hunted. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry to leave it on a cliffhanger! It just felt like a good transition point... *hides behind the couch*</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Act Nine: Old biker ladies lose their clothes (it’s even less fun than it sounds)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dean thinks old people are creepy, Sam thinks Dean is an idiot, and all hell breaks loose.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Swearing up a storm, Dean springs into action, legging it to the trunk to gear up. They’re going to have to go the rest of the way on foot, unless one of the kids’ witchy parents decides to grace them with their presence. </p>
<p>“Hey, kids, we need to get a move on.” He snaps his fingers and points. They cluster around him and stare wide-eyed at the destroyed tires. “I don’t know what did that or where they are, but Baby’s not gonna be taking us any farther.” </p>
<p>Grover whimpers a bit, poor kid, so Dean tucks him under his arm, feeling a bit like a broody hen. </p>
<p>“Hey, hey, stay calm. I’m not letting anything happen to you, alright?” He locks eyes with Annabeth, Luke, then Thalia. They’re all serious now, no traces of the carefree silly kids left, just the same world-weary alertness he’d seen in the mirror growing up. He does his best to project confidence, the same steady surety that Dad always seemed to have. “You’re all going to be fine, we just have to walk the rest of the way. Should only be a mile or so down the road.” </p>
<p>With that, they set out, tracing along the fields and fences, which turn to skeletal wooded stretches beside the small unlined road. It’s a beautiful day, bright and sunny despite the cold, probably an even nicer view in the summer and fall when the trees are less bare and the grass isn’t flat and brown. There’s not much wind, which seems to be a blessing until Dean clocks what’s bugging him about this whole situation. </p>
<p>It’s dead quiet, silent as a graveyard, the unnatural sort of stillness that usually precedes a ghost popping up and trying its hardest to knock out Dean’s lights. No birdsong, no skittering of squirrels in the background, no rustling of naked branches. Just the steady crunching of their boots and the sound of Dean’s own breathing filling his head. There’s a whisper of sound off to the side, but when he turns his head to look, it’s just the same corpse-like trees, stretching as far as the eye can see. He blinks and nearly jumps outta his skin. </p>
<p>Three old ladies are standing a ways away. They must have come from one of the side roads or somewhere just out of sight because he could swear they weren’t there a second ago. Far be it for Dean to disparage his elders (who is he kidding, old people give him the heebie jeebies, with their bony fingers and repeated questions about whether he’s married or has kids), but he’s got a bad feeling about this. </p>
<p>“Do you need some help?” One of them asks, voice sharp and rough like she’s been chain-smoking longer than Dean’s been alive. She sort of reminds him of his high school chemistry teacher, in spirit, constantly irritated and disapproving, that is if Mrs. Hall wore a leather jacket instead of a variety of eye-searing pink cardigans.</p>
<p>All three of them look like they raised hell, back in the day, probably the type to ride down to Daytona for biker rallies every year. It’s in the eyes, he thinks, because one of them’s wearing a fuzzy cat sweater.</p>
<p>And no one covered in cats should look that intimidating.</p>
<p>He’d be much more impressed by their gravitas if he wasn’t quietly freaking out. The first woman’s got a smile on, but the look in her eyes is the same one Mrs. Hall would level at the class right before she announced a pop quiz or assigned a fifteen-problem set with nine parts each. Due next class. Like she wants to eat them alive.</p>
<p>“We don’t tend to get many hikers around here,” her friend, the cat lady, adds.</p>
<p>Dean shifts uncomfortably, keeping his sawed-off tucked tightly against his thigh. Just because they give him the creeps doesn’t mean they’re not human. On the off chance that they’re civilians, he’d rather not be booked as some shotgun-wielding wackjob kidnapper. </p>
<p>“We’re alright, thanks,” Sam replies, smiling his aww-shucks, don’t-mind-us grin. Yeah, the one that makes all the grannies in the park offer him cookies while muttering under their breaths about Sam’s “unsavory friend” being a “bad influence.” Dean would be offended, but a lot of the things he’s most proud of could fall under the category of bad influence. So, point. </p>
<p>The first lady starts saying something, but Dean’s definitely not paying attention anymore because <em> holy shit</em>.</p>
<p>He’s not sure what the hell is going on, but something shifts a little in the air around the women, like a highway mirage on a brain-meltingly hot day.</p>
<p>One moment, he’s looking at a trio of generally harmless looking old ladies, the next, he’s staring at the monsters in the closet.</p>
<p>Huge brown bat wings stretch high above their heads, which are filled with considerably more sharp, pointy teeth than he’d thought. Their eyes, which were unsettling enough already, glow eerily, even in bright sunlight. In their wrinkled, gnarled hands are wicked-looking bullwhips that drag along the ground. He locks eyes with Cat Sweater, and her vacant smile hardens into a fierce snarl.</p>
<p>Oh shit.</p>
<p>Dean puts a bullet between her eyes, and she dissolves into that same gross yellow sand as the cyclopes and the bird monsters from before. </p>
<p>All hell breaks loose. </p>
<p>Her little friends shriek in anger (oh, he’s definitely pissed them off) and take to the skies, churning the air with each powerful beat of their wings.</p>
<p>“Take cover!” Dean shouts at the kids, and they scramble for the woods, Sam close behind.</p>
<p>Dean lunges in the opposite direction, firing a couple shots at them to try and draw their fire. Well, alright, he was hoping to hit another one of them, but Harley Davidson and her buddy in shapeless cheetah print can really move. He ducks to the side as Cheetah Print swoops down at him, her whip carving a flaming path through the air. It’s actually on fire, setting patches of dry grass alight.</p>
<p>Dean spares a second to think that Smokey Bear definitely wouldn’t approve.</p>
<p>Past them, he can see Sam playing keep-away with Harley Davidson, hampered by the fact that he’s shielding four kids whose myriad of <em> goddamn </em> knives weren’t designed for aerial combat. Obviously, whatever God was helping them out earlier likes to watch him suffer. That fucker. Keeping Cheetah Print at bay, he sprints towards Sam in time to hear him say, “They’re furious!” </p>
<p>“No shit, Sam, I couldn’t tell they’re angry!” he yells back, narrowly dodging a fiery strike that cracks loudly by his ear. “Maybe because I shot their friend in the face!”</p>
<p>He dives for cover, rolling back up to his feet, and Sam shouts, “No, dumbass, they’re Furies!”</p>
<p>Dean shoots at Harley Davidson, who nearly takes Thalia right off her feet, and bellows, “Now is not the time!”</p>
<p>He turns, and immediately hits the deck, Cheetah Print’s whip catching a branch instead of his neck. In the split-second it takes for her to burn through the branch, he ganks her. She poofs into a foul cloud of dust, leaving Dean sputtering and spitting out the devil sand. Jesus, he hopes the old monster lady wasn’t poisonous.</p>
<p>With two Winchesters against one old bat, it’s not even a fair fight. Harley Davidson goes down with a stray bullet to the shoulder. They tense, waiting for trouble to reappear, but the monsters don’t come back like ghosts tend to. Dean walks over and socks Sam in the arm. </p>
<p>“Man, you can’t be getting distracted like that. I know your nerdy brain loves all the lore, but you have to keep your focus.” </p>
<p>Sam doesn’t bitch back at him, which puts Dean on edge all over again. He’s got this grim look on his face, like he’s about to drop some supremely shitty news. </p>
<p>“Dean,” he says, “Those were Furies.” </p>
<p>Off to the side, Grover makes a strangled sound. “Don’t say their names!” </p>
<p>“What?” Dean asks, not getting why they’re having a debrief right now instead of getting on their way. He jerks his head back toward the path. “We should be moving, not gossiping like ladies in a hair salon.” </p>
<p>“Wait,” Grover pipes up. Dean turns to see the kid cradling-</p>
<p>Oh hell no.</p>
<p>“Sam,” Dean says, hoping that he’s just seeing things. “Am I crazy, or did the Furies leave their clothes?” Grover shushes him again, which is not the effect he was going for. He starts thinking about poison blood and basically fucking teleports over to make sure the kid’s not about to dissolve.</p>
<p>“Jesus Christ, don’t pick up stuff that’s not yours! Who knows where it’s been?” </p>
<p>He’s really not sure when Harley Davidson had the chance to start stripping, but that’s definitely her leather jacket. It’s soft and buttery, lighter than cowhide. As he shakes it out, a whip and something small and curved tumble to the ground. He picks them up and examines them. The whip isn’t on fire anymore, thank god, but it looks no less dangerous than it did cutting through the air. The last thing looks to be a claw, a couple inches long and sharp enough to cut Dean’s thumb with just a hint of pressure. </p>
<p>“They’re spoils of war,” Grover says solemnly.</p>
<p>Dean stares at him, feeling the urge to duck and cover.</p>
<p>“Are we at war?”</p>
<p>Grover doesn’t answer, which isn’t comforting at all. </p>
<p>Off in the distance, a dog howls. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Alright, we're approaching the end of the story! The next chapter will be the last one (whooo!), and I just finished writing it last night. I hope that it's a satisfying conclusion for you guys. </p>
<p>Side note, the entire reason that I wrote this story was so I could get the interaction of</p>
<p>Sam: Dean! They're Furies!</p>
<p>Dean: Yeah, man, I can see that they're mad.</p>
<p>Sam: NO DUMBASS THEY'RE FURIES</p>
<p>:D so you have that tiny little bit to thank for this story</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Act Ten: The End.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The end of our heroes' journey!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Whaaat?! Two chapters at once? Did I suddenly become an actually semi-productive writer?!? </p><p>I took some inspiration from a certain scene in a certain episode- you'll see when you get there. So, full credit to the creators of SPN for, at the least, the atmosphere of that bit.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean watches Sam’s face turn pale, and he feels like he might throw up. </p><p>Hellhounds. </p><p>He can feel their phantom teeth biting, tearing through skin and muscle and dislocating bone, smells the stink of his shit as they rip into his bowels and drag him down into the scorching flames-</p><p>Dean startles, snapping out of it as Sam slams into him, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the road. </p><p>“Run!” he shouts at the kids, oh god, the kids. </p><p>Sam’s talking a mile a minute in his ear as they all take off, each frantic slap of his shoes on the ground reverberating up into his skull. He feels like he might faint, palms and pits sweating, as saliva pools on his tongue. He twists, spits it onto the ground, and keeps running. </p><p>“I should have realized it earlier,” Sam says.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>There’s a bone-deep ache in Dean’s chest, remnants of an old body that’s been dead and buried. He wishes certain memories could have stayed gone, that he could stop feeling pains and terrors that aren’t even there. </p><p>Sam glances behind them, slows their pace to let the kids fly by. </p><p>“The Furies. I should have realized-” Sam shakes his head, and Dean cuts him off before he starts spiraling into self-hatred. </p><p>“What is it?” </p><p>“It’s Hades. He’s the one going after them.” Dean catches his shoe on a rock and almost wipes out except for Sam’s bruising grip on his arm. </p><p>“Hades? Like Greek god of the underworld, Persephone’s husband Hades?” Dean gasps for air, massively reconsidering the burger he just ate. </p><p>Sam nods, but they’re still running for their goddamn lives, so it looks more like whiplash. </p><p>“All those creatures after the kids, they’re all from Greek mythology.” He’s not even out of breath, and Dean resists the childish impulse to trip him. It’s really not the time. “The cyclopes, the harpies-”</p><p>“Who?” Dean interrupts.</p><p>Sam elbows him in the ribs- motherfucker, that hurts- and continues. “The <em> chicken ladies</em>, the Furies, and now hellhounds. I don’t know who the hell those kids are, but Hades is coming after them.”</p><p>The sound of howling is getting closer and closer. Dean has absolutely no plan, except to keep running. There’s nowhere to go, not with Baby’s tires slashed, and besides, she’s back where they definitely don’t want to be.   </p><p>Damn.</p><p>He fucking hates running.</p><p>Dean spares a thought to wish that he’d joined Sam on some of those early morning meditation jogs. Don’t get it twisted, he can run, alright, good enough to keep ahead of the sons of bitches they usually go up against. But he’s more of a sprinter than an endurance guy, and he’s never gotten good enough at it to not feel like he’s drowning the entire time. Unfair, is what it is, because he’s never felt that runner’s high that Sammy always talks about.</p><p>“There!” Grover shouts, pointing at a seemingly random hilltop. “We just need to get up there, and they won’t be able to follow us!” </p><p>Thank whoever that their coven set up a border and the kid seems to recognize his surroundings.</p><p>Dean puts on an extra burst of speed, snatching up Annabeth as he passes her. In his peripheral, he sees Sam do the same with Grover.</p><p>Luke and Thalia lead their tiny pack up the hill. It feels like they’re running in slow motion, the crest of the hill impossibly far away.</p><p>Dean chances a glance behind him, right as a horde of hellhounds pour from the trees in a sea of snarling red-eyed darkness. As he watches them spill across the field in a seething inky black mass, he’s the most terrified he’s ever been. </p><p>All of a sudden, he hits a wall with a shout. </p><p>Annabeth takes a dive right out of his arms, past the invisible barrier that Dean just body slammed. That’s gonna hurt if he survives this.</p><p>“<em>Di immortales</em>!” Grover spits out, looking horrified. Luke and Thalia turn around at the commotion, having gone straight through this fucking wall. Sam strains against the blockade, but they’re not getting in. </p><p>He’s not sure why he didn’t expect this. Of course the wards wouldn’t let them through. The kids are safe, though, which is what matters. </p><p><em> Jesus shit fuck goddamn. </em> </p><p>Who is he kidding, he really doesn’t want to die again. The kids are screaming and crying, which is not the soundtrack he would have picked for his epic hero’s moment. </p><p>He turns to look at Sam, brilliant Sammy who’s emptying a small pouch of goofer dust in a rough but unbroken half-circle around them.</p><p>It’s not going to save them, but it’ll buy some time until Hades sends another monster to break the line. The first hound hits the circle and bounces clean off, baying for their blood.</p><p>They’re surrounded, trapped between an immovable object and an unstoppable force. Annabeth and Grover grab onto his jacket, tugging and shouting, their little faces turning red with exertion. </p><p>“Sam,” he rasps out, something in him both seizing and easing up when he sees his brother's glassy eyes.</p><p>He forgets, sometimes, that hellhounds aren’t just <em> his </em> worst nightmare.</p><p>“Sammy,” Dean says, grabbing his brother by the shoulders, “I’m so sorry, I’m so damn sorry.”</p><p>He’s sorry that they’re going to go out this way, sorry that he dragged Sam away from his normal college boy life, even though he knows deep down that the yellow-eyed bastard wouldn’t have let that happiness last, sorry that he can’t find a way to save them.</p><p>Sorry that he’s just a little bit glad, perversely, to not be alone at the end.</p><p>He wants to scream, put the Colt’s bullet between the eyes of whatever divine power is in charge, say fuck it all, but there’s no point. He can’t shout louder than the hounds.</p><p>So instead, he fists his hands in Sam’s jacket and rests his brow against Sam’s, like he used to do when Sammy was just a little baby who wouldn’t fall asleep.</p><p>He always loved touching Sammy’s soft skin, loved the way it made him giggle, delighted, and wave his chubby little arms in the air. He loved the warmth of Sammy beside him, the way their weight on sagging motel mattresses would roll them together on the long nights when they waited for Dad to get home.</p><p>Sam’s crying, big fat alligator tears leaving streaks in the grime on his face, but Dean’ll let it go, just this once, because he’s crying too.</p><p>“Y-you know,” Sam says shakily with a wobbly grin, “This time I’m not letting you leave me behind.”</p><p>Dean rests there, for a short eternity, feeling his heart swelling in his chest.</p><p>This time, they'll go together.  </p><p>They turn as one to face the kids, who are bawling. Annabeth and Grover both try to grab an arm each, but Dean stubbornly grips Sam, relinquishing one hand for them to hold. </p><p>“You guys need to go,” Dean tells them over the snarls of the waiting hellhounds. “You’re not gonna want to see this.” </p><p>“No!” Annabeth shrieks, hysterical. “You can’t stay, you have to come with us!” Grover’s pulling with all his might, digging his heels into the ground and leaning his weight back, to no avail. </p><p>“Annie,” Sam says, kindly, always so kind. “It’s okay. You can let go.” </p><p>Dean looks at Thalia, her face blotchy with righteous anger at the cruel injustice of fate, then at Luke, who just gives him a sad smile, shakes his head, and says, “They’re too mortal.” </p><p>“No!” Annabeth wails, “come on, you’ll die!”</p><p>Luke tries to pry her off, but she curls around Dean’s arm, shaking.</p><p>“<em>COME</em> <em>ON!</em>” she screams, and the air pressure drops.</p><p> </p><p>The fucking wall disappears.</p><p>Sam and Dean tumble through, and they all fall down in a heap. </p><p>Dean musters up his energy, rolls off the kids onto his back, and grins up at the sky, grins so hard his face hurts.</p><p><em>They're</em> <em>alive. </em></p><p>“What? How?” Grover asks, blanching like he’s just seen a ghost. “That shouldn’t have been possible.”</p><p>Annabeth sniffles, wiping her face on Dean’s jacket. With all the prim authority of a nun in a Catholic school, she says:</p><p>“Magic isn’t racist.” </p><p>Off to the side, Sam groans faintly. </p><p>Dean bursts out laughing, giddy with relief. It's instinct to curl into Sam and listen to his beating heart. </p><p>Dean flails out a hand, ruffles Grover's hair, and says, “Damn straight.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The end.</p><p> </p><p>It's okay, it's okay! They're still alive, they're all alive. It's *fine*. </p><p>Fucking hell, I meant for this to be solely a funny short little thing, and then the boys got all emotional and sad like they always do. </p><p>I was listening to the Mandalorian soundtrack while I was writing this, so I don't know if that influenced any of the decisions I made. I had the whole story mapped out in my head from the beginning, and this was always the way that it was going to end. </p><p>I just didn't think that Sam and Dean would be so dramatic! </p><p>If it wasn't abundantly clear, I drew on the series finale quite a bit. While I was writing, I kept thinking, "Is this too gay? I mean, this seems at least a tiny bit homoerotic." </p><p>But nah, we're fine. This is well within the bounds of canon Winchester codependence.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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